by Tim Young


Sitting by the fountain

Hair slips into surgery

Lancing old wounds

Staving off infection

Through my eyes

Sun blast the proof

Of the silhouette

Startling lack of detail

Shadows from a star

Never too close

Never too far

The female by the fountain

Almost a whisper

Ancient chords in my ear

Struggling for a moment

If I was there or I was here

Other voices tucked into the breeze

Then blow off like dead, yellow leaves

But face and hands

Gather warming rays

When blue skies flirt

With yellow haze

And deepness hurts

And blood is boiled

And all my clothes

Are ripped and soiled

Yet night's arrival

Is delayed by a switch

The tracks very shiny

The signals

Need to be fixed

The rest

Is all in slow motion

The surgical hair

Has cut a deeper shadow

Light forced to beware

But there is no ticking

Time simply a memory

The black birds

Lifted then dropped the clocks

Spring fell further behind

There is a corner of the mind

A corner on its way

But not quite blind

So vision begs, screams and pleads

Rarely receiving what it needs

Then the light plays tricks

And hovers in each moment

Learning important

Last licks

Like the mind

Is an envelope

Sliding lives into heal

But then all must escape

Before the flap

Is sealed